Death in the Setting Sun (32 page)

“Well, I haven’t got any.”

“I’ll take your washing water.”

“Of course.” And he carried the basin and emptied it into the unpleasant bucket she was carrying. “Oh God, Elizabeth,” he went on, “you shouldn’t be doing this.” She raised an expressive shoulder. “My dear John, I could hardly get a post as a parlourmaid, now could I? But I’m afraid I’ve been of no great help to you, other than for finding out about Benedict.”

John was agog. “I know that he has a passion for you. But what did you discover?”

“That he spies for Princess Amelia. Oh yes, I know she looks harmless but she hates anything — anything at all — to slip past her. So she employs Benedict to find out everything that is going on.”

“And does he?”

“Mostly. He is very puzzled by you, incidentally, though he hasn’t realised who you really are. Nonetheless he is certain you are not what you seem.”

“Whatever gave him that idea?”

“He says you are too light-hearted to be an army man.”

“The gall of the fellow. I’d be obliged if he took his notions elsewhere.”

Elizabeth turned away. “But actually I’ve been of little practical help, have I?”

John stood studying her back, noticing yet again how straight and strong she was, how, other than for her firm high bosom, he was looking at a fairly masculine physique. And then he noticed the hollow where her neck met her shoulders and the most extraordinary sensation swept over him. It was a mixture of emotions: grief at losing Emilia, the age-old longing common to all red-blooded males, the desperate need for physical comfort. Coming up behind Elizabeth, he put his arms round her and kissed her neck again and again with a kind of frantic despair. She turned to face him and at that moment he desired her more than anything else in the world. He put his lips on hers and kissed her deeply, for a long time. Then he couldn’t help himself. He started to press close to her and raise her skirts. Elizabeth frowned. “John?” she said.

“I want you,” he answered.

Her expression changed. “No, John, not until you want me for myself alone.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s Emilia you are missing, it’s her that you need.”

“No, that isn’t true.”

“I’m afraid, my dearest, that it is.”

“Elizabeth, I swear …”

“Say no more,” she answered, putting her finger to his lips. “Just ask me when your sadness has gone.”

“And will you agree?”

She smiled a witch’s smile. “Wait and see,” she said, and picking up the sordid bucket she left the room.

John stood, gazing at where she had been, trying to control himself, hoping against hope that she would reconsider and return. But after a few minutes during which his breathing returned to normal, he knew that she would not. Looking in the mirror he saw that his eyes were full of lust and longing, as was the rest of his body. Straightening his clothes and adjusting his eye-patch, then sighing deeply, John Rawlings slowly descended the staircase.

He thought about Elizabeth all through the light meal, picturing her as she had stared up at him, her ugly beauty so close, the scar which she hated one of the most attractive things about her. In fact he was so rapt in contemplation that he said and ate little and sat deep in thought, picking at his food and leaving half of it on his plate.

Not everyone was present, the Princess having taken herself off, Lady Hampshire deciding to remain in her room, and those that did foregather were in no mood for conversation. Sitting silently in this way, it suddenly occurred to the Apothecary that the Beak Runners — Sir John’s mobile unit — would probably be due to arrive that very afternoon. If so it was imperative that he absent himself quickly. Much as he had a good relationship with Runners Ham and Raven, he knew that their patience with him must now be wearing thin. They were bound to make an arrest. Consequently, as soon as it was polite to do so, John excused himself from the table, put on the Prince of Mecklenburg’s sturdy cape and walked out into the winter sunshine.

It was a fine afternoon and John made his way to The Temple, determined to look round once more. But as he approached the door he heard two whispering voices and, flattening himself behind a pillar, listened carefully to what they had to say, determined that if it was nothing to do with the murders he would absent himself.

“My dear,” said Lady Kemp, “do you think I should tell those court officials, the Runners?”

“Well, it really is up to you and your conscience,” answered Lady Featherstonehaugh.

“What do you mean by that, pray?”

“Simply that in so doing you might be implicating yourself.”

“I see.”

There was a silence, then Lady Featherstonehaugh said, “You must agree that our actions are decidedly odd.”

“Yes, but so interesting. Anyway you’ve made my mind up for me. I shall say nothing to Sir John Fielding’s Fellows.”

“Well, I’ve made up
my
mind. I think you should.”

“Oh la, my dear, now you’ve sent me into a regular pother. I don’t know what to do.”

“Tell them.”

“I’ll think about it. That’s the most I can say.”

“Oh zoonters!” retorted Lady Featherstonehaugh crossly.

John moved away wondering what in heaven’s name that extraordinary bit of conversation had been about. At the moment it meant nothing but perhaps something would reveal itself in due course. In any event, it was time he visited Bellow’s Farm and quizzed Michael O’Callaghan. He set off at a brisk pace through the estate, not risking going by road. But as he proceeded into the trees he was aware of a coach turning into the carriage sweep and saw that the Runners had arrived and had brought with them the cart they used for transporting the dead. The grim thought that Lady Theydon had also been placed under the coroner’s jurisdiction struck him most forcibly.

At this point in his perambulation Bellow Brook divided the grounds from the farmlands and, slithering down the bank, John crossed on the stepping stones and climbed up the embankment the other side. Then, shaking the water from his shoes, he removed his eye-patch and made his way to the farm.

To his astonishment he saw that Hugh Bellow was up, leaning heavily on his homemade crutches. Jake, meanwhile, looking amazingly good-tempered, was milking. Of Michael O’Callaghan there was no sign.

“Good afternoon, Sir,” called John. “It’s nice to see you up and about.”

Hugh pulled a face. “I’m more of a supervisor than a worker. But at least I’ve said goodbye to my bed.”

“May I look at your leg?”

“By all means. Shall we step inside?”

“Gladly.”

As he went into the farmhouse Jacob looked up from the milking shed and gave the Apothecary a black glare. John responded with a cheery wave and a bow.

They stepped into the warmth of the kitchen and Hugh hobbled to the dresser and poured two pints of beer from a stone vessel.

“Well, my friend,” he said heartily, “it’s good to see you again.”

“And you, Hugh. Tell me, how is the new hand getting on?”

“Well, he’s a good worker, I’ll say that much.”

“But … ?”

“But he mysteriously vanishes from time to time. Jake can’t be everywhere and I can only hobble round the farmyard so he has a pretty free rein, of which he takes full advantage. Mind you, he’s always back for his dinner. Never misses. And he has an appetite like a horse.”

“Where is he now?”

“Heaven knows.”

“Well, I’ll have a look at your leg then I’ll go and search for him. I want to ask him a few questions.”

Hugh looked grim. “I hear the big house has become a place of death. Two more gone. Who can possibly be the culprit?”

The Apothecary shook his head. “I have no idea, I’m afraid. Yet the need to solve the crimes is imperative. The Princess will stay in the house for only a couple more days, three at the most. Then she will shut the place down and that will be that.”

“You mean the murderer will get away unpunished?”

“Yes,” said John baldly, recalling the minutes he had spent under Lady Theydon’s bed, down in the dust, and yet been none the wiser about the killer’s identity.

An inspection of Hugh’s injury — which was healing slowly but soundly — over, John sauntered out and stared round the farm’s considerable holdings, wondering exactly where Michael O’Callaghan had got himself.

“Come back to spy on us?” said a voice behind him, and he turned to see Jacob, milk bucket in hand, giving him a supercilious look.

“On the contrary,” John answered smoothly. “I’ve actually come to have a word with the new hand.”

Jake snorted. “Him. He’s about as much good as you were. Soft like all you town folks. Work-shy.”

“That’s not what your father told me.” The Apothecary paused, then said, “Look, Jacob, I know you’ve hated me since I first arrived at Bellow’s Farm but there is no need, really. I don’t want to take your place in your father’s affections nor am I after usurping your position. Neither is Michael O’Callaghan. We are simply here to help during your father’s disability. That’s all.”

Jake scowled at the milk bucket. “That’s your story. I think you’re a murderer.”

“Then why,” said the Apothecary, thoroughly put out, “don’t you go to the constable in Brentford and hand me in?”

“Cos I’ve better things to do with my time.”

“Nonsense. There’s a substantial reward. Go ahead and claim it.”

“And earn my father’s wrath? No, it wouldn’t be worth the money.”

“Surely you could go in secret. Need your father ever know?”

“He’d find out somehow. He’s got a bit of gypsy blood and nothing escapes him.”

“That’s what I could do with, a bit of clairvoyance. ‘Zounds, what a tangled web this is.”

Jacob put the bucket down. “I’ll tell you this much, John Rawlings — that is your real name, isn’t it?” The Apothecary nodded. “That Irishman spends half his time on the Gunnersbury Park estate. Crosses over by the way you came in, judging by the state of your boots.”

John looked down and saw that mud from the embankment had indeed stuck to his footwear.

“And what do you reckon to that?”

“I reckon that he’s either mad for love or that he’s killing people,” Jacob answered succinctly. Then he spat on the ground, picked up the bucket, and strode into the house without a backward glance.

Half an hour later John was sitting on a bale of hay, telling Joe Jago everything that had happened that day, with the exception of his interlude with Elizabeth. For dear friend that Joe was, he could not bring himself to discuss the strange feelings that had swamped him when he had been in her company. Feelings that had been in his mind all day and which he had overcome by forcing them firmly away, only for them to come creeping back as soon as he relaxed.

“So, Sir,” asked Joe, “what do you think of Lady Georgiana’s version of events?”

John sucked on a piece of straw. “It’s difficult to say but quite honestly I tend to believe her.”

“You do, eh.” Joe went very quiet, the light blue eyes gazing into the middle distance, and John knew from his look that the clerk was deep in thought. Eventually he said, “Tell me, Sir, what kind of woman she is.”

“What do you mean?”

“Is she a foolish flap or does she have strength?”

“A combination of the two,” John answered. “She’s fickle in her views but I believe she has a tough backbone.”

“How tough?”

“I don’t know, Joe. At a guess I would say she’s pretty strong — I mean, she was considering running away with Michael O’Callaghan while her husband was alive, and that takes some doing.”

Joe’s eyes took on that faraway look once again. “I think I’d better speak with her,” he said.

“Changing the subject utterly, how is Eclipse?”

“I can announce to the world that he is cured.”

“Does Princess Amelia know?”

“She does. She intends to make public tonight the fact that she is packing up this house in two days time.”

“Oh ‘zounds and ‘zooters,” exclaimed John. “We’ll never catch the villain in that short space.”